


line of succession

by thingswithteeth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithteeth/pseuds/thingswithteeth
Summary: Sasha takes a deep breath and summons a smile. She hates her job. She’s hardly the only woman in London who hates her job. If she tells herself that often enough, maybe all of this will feel more—.Normal.
Relationships: Sasha James & Gertrude Robinson, very background Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 87





	line of succession

The leftover Chinese takeaway Sasha had packed for lunch is two days old. It’s still good, but the grease pooling on the plate is making her a little queasy. Every time she goes to take a bite she smells burning fat and feels her muscles seize and twitch. God, but she _hates_ pulling the short straw for a testing cycle with the Hand of Glory. The smell is bad. The forced immobility is worse. Sonja had told her the first time that it’s better not to fight, to just relax into being still, but she’s never been able to manage it; the moment that she knows that she _can’t_ move, she wants to, and by the time Sonja blows out the flames flickering at the tips of the Hand’s fingers Sasha is always sweating and straining, heart pounding and breath short. There’s a strange kind of claustrophobia to feeling so constrained, even in the middle of a wide open room. She always manages to convince herself that she can’t breathe. She always ends up crying after. Sonja is sympathetic, but she has an uncomfortable way of watching Sasha’s reaction, like she’s cataloging it all. That’s probably exactly what she’s doing – it’s their job, after all – but there’s something about Sonja’s gaze, like she’s not even looking at Sasha but through her.

Sonja looks at most things that way. Alan had once told her that Sonja is the longest standing head of Artefact Storage in the Magnus Institute’s entire two hundred year history, and knowing that makes Sasha wonder if, two or three or five years from now, she’ll also be staring dreamily into the middle distance during every conversation, aware but no longer entirely present.

If she lasts that long.

Christ, it’s only been a month and a half.

“Sasha?”

Alan is standing in the break room door.

“Lunch break over already?” Sasha stands and resignedly dumps her food into the bin, pretending not the see the way Alan flinches when her fork scrapes against the already scratched plate.

“No. That is to say—yes, but that’s not why I wanted to—I have a favor to ask.”

Sasha takes a deep breath and summons a smile. She hates her job. She’s hardly the only woman in London who hates her job. If she tells herself that often enough, maybe all of this will feel more—.

Normal.

“You can ask.”

Alan licks his lips nervously. “I just—it’s my anniversary tonight. I—forgot.”

Alan has been forgetting a lot recently. Too many cycles with the memory book, if Sasha is feeling credulous. Age and work stress, if she’s determined to be skeptical. “Jeffrey is going to skin you.”

“He really might.”

Sasha puts her plate in the sink and sighs. “You’ve got an overnight scheduled with the rusty chair.”

“How did you—?”

Sometimes she peeks at Sonja’s desktop. Just out of curiosity. Just to prepare herself for what’s to come. Not her fault that Sonja uses her son’s birthday as a password. “That’s for me to know,” she says, and pretends that she can’t feel her smile strain. “You want me to cover?”

“ _Would_ you?”

He looks so relieved. Jeffrey really will skin him. There’s a certain solidarity to hating your stupid, weird job together. “Sure.”

**

“I don’t believe,” someone says from behind Sasha, “that you’re supposed to be here.” The voice is cool, amused. Sasha’s doesn’t jump. She doesn’t consider herself a particularly brave person, but she also doesn’t startle easy, these days.

“I was just—doing some follow up,” Sasha says. She turns around, already resigned to what she’ll find behind her.

Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, is watching her with the same cool amusement that had colored her voice. Sasha doesn’t know her, but everyone knows _of_ Gertrude. The rumors are extensive. Gertrude Robinson has worked at the Institute longer than anyone. Gertrude Robinson doesn’t submit expense reports, she just tells Elias what her budget is. Gertrude Robinson is so difficult to work under that every single one of her assistants has quit without notice. Gertrude Robinson doesn’t leave the Archives when she’s at the Institute, but she’s also _never_ at the Institute, which is rather what Sasha had been counting on.

“I believe that’s what Research is supposed to do.” If Sonja’s gaze is constantly abstracted then Gertrude’s is uncomfortably sharp, leaving Sasha with the impression that a mere glance could flay skin from bone. “You’re not _with_ Research, are you?”

Sasha swallows. “No.” This feels like getting in trouble at school. Elise had always teased her for that, before the accident. _You won’t even come on a rollercoaster with me_ , _but after-hours B &E is fine and good_, she had said, and she’d been making fun the way that only an older sibling could, but she’d also snuck Sasha’s confiscated phone back to her, and she’d been the one to bang down the headteacher’s office door when Sasha had shown her proof that—. “I’m, ah, Artefact Storage.”

“Hmm,” Gertrude says. “What are you looking for?”

It takes Sasha a second to find her tongue. “I—statement nine-nine-eight-zero-seven... zero... four?”

Gertrude hums softly again. “I remember it. Why would you want to look at that dusty old thing?”

She’s done three cycles with the rusty chair, and every time she’s woken up screaming, furious, with copper on her tongue. “Just—curious, I suppose.”

For a long moment, Gertrude just looks at her. Then she turns away, striding up the aisle between the shelves until she reaches the section that Sasha would have sworn stored statements from 1912-1913. She’s up on her toes and buried to the elbow in a box, and she should look silly, but she doesn’t. Eventually she emerges with a file folder, thick and grimy, with frayed corners. “Here we go.” She returns to Sasha, and her gaze is steady as she holds out the file. Sasha is left with the impression of a gauntlet being thrown, although she isn’t certain why.

She reaches up, fingers closing around the edge of the file. It’s heavy against the palm of her hand. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” There’s a gleam to Gertrude’s eye, and Sasha feels like she’s being laughed at, like there’s a joke here she doesn’t understand. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” She tilts her head. “Do be careful, my dear. If you’re willing to take advice from an old lady, well—curiosity isn’t always something that should be fed.”

“Thank you,” Sasha says again, and flees before Gertrude can change her mind. She can feel the Head Archivist watching her all the way until she reaches the door.

**

“Why the Magnus Institute, Ms. James?” Elias Bouchard asks bluntly, at the end of their interview. “You don’t have a background in parapsychology, and you don’t seem to have any particular interest in the field that we study. You’re qualified, but why do you even want this job?”

Sasha shifts in her seat. Her suit belongs to one of her flatmates, and it’s a size too small; her shoes had been bought on discount and the faux leather is new and stiff, pinching at her big toe even while seated. Already this interview doesn’t seem worth the discomfort, given the way it’s going, and for a moment she’s tempted to just tell him the truth: that the insurance money has run out and she needs a job, even if it means working for a nationally recognized joke. “I won’t pretend that I’m not skeptical,” she says instead, picking her words carefully, “but I don’t see why that has to be a bad thing. I’m curious, and I’m willing to approach your work with an open mind.” She forces a smile. “Wouldn’t it be interesting, if it all turned out to be true?”

She’s a little surprised when Mr. Bouchard smiles back at her. “Indeed.”

**

“Are you okay?”

He’s tall. He takes up space, and he might be intimidating were he not so clearly committed to _not_ being that, hands twisting fretfully together. Sasha thinks he works in Research. Marvin, maybe? Regardless, him asking if she’s okay is clearly him trying to politely ascertain if there’s a reason that she’s spent the last five minutes staring blankly into the cupboard. “Fine. Sorry.” She scoots out of the way.

He looks at her closely, and Sasha tries not to flinch. “Do you—I was going to make some tea. Would you like some?”

Her eyes prickle, and she blinks impatiently. “I—sure.” The air burns her sinuses as she breathes in.

She hates her job. That’s normal. Everyone hates their job.

“Okay,” he says, and Sasha remembers that his name is actually Martin, that he’s been at the Institute for years and that some of the other researchers like to whisper about him, the way that he’s slow and methodical and takes forever to turn in reports, but she’s _seen_ his work and knows that slow also means _thorough._ “Milk?”

“You’re really good at research,” she says. It’s weird, she knows it’s weird even before he freezes with his hand hovering over the kettle.

“Thanks,” he says, and clears his throat. “I—milk?”

“Please.”

**

She tries the lighter once, twice, thrice before she’s forced to admit that it’s out of fluid and no flame is forthcoming.

“Need a light?”

Sasha turns her head and finds Gertrude Robinson watching her closely.

“I didn’t realize you smoked,” Sasha says.

“I don’t. But I have a light.”

Sasha breathes out. “Sure. That would be—great.”

Gertrude’s hands are fine-boned and thin-skinned but steady as she holds out the fire. Sasha leans in, inhales, watches the tip of her cigarette flare in the second before the smoke hits the back of her throat.

“I should quit,” she says.

Jeffrey had come to pick Alan up this morning. His face had been pinched. Alan had been doing another testing cycle with the memory book, and none of them had—none of them had realized until Sonja had found him scribbling an hour and a half later that he’d written it _all_ down, the entire seven months he’d worked at the Magnus Institute. He’d smiled blandly up at his husband and said, “We’re supposed to go to your mum’s this weekend, aren’t we?” Jeffrey's face had been pinched. Even Sasha had known that Alan’s mother-in-law had died two months earlier. She’d signed the condolence card and spent another night with the rusty chair to make sure that Alan could make the memorial.

He hadn’t even recognized her, as she’d helped Jeffrey pack up his desk. She wonders who he even is, if he’s no longer the man she’s worked with for the past three months. Perhaps he’s no one, nothing, only a stranger. That’s what it feels like.

“I should quit,” she says again.

**

Research is—.

Research is good. The furniture in the reading room is worn and glows warm with generations worth of wood polish, and the windows are big, bleeding light. Martin makes her tea. Jon is withdrawn and judgmental, which only makes it more flattering when he compliments the way she collates sources into a cohesive whole. They all go out for ice cream for Martin’s birthday. It’s Sasha’s idea, and she can’t help but feel stupidly satisfied with herself as she watches Martin flush with pleasure and Jon lecture idly about the historic use of egg yolk as an emulsifier, forgetting himself enough to look almost relaxed in the bright fluorescents of the ice cream parlor. Tim shoves at his shoulder and laughs at him. When Sasha offers the cherry from her shake to the table Tim leans forward to catch it between his teeth. He meets her eyes, pleased with himself and knowing, and Sasha feels a little too warm.

Sometimes he leans against her desk, smiling down at her, pleased with himself and knowing, and Sasha is aware it’s a bad idea. Workplace hookups always are, but Tim looks like fun and he has a way of looking at _her_ like she has all of his attention while she has it, and she knows that it being a bad idea won’t be enough to stop her forever.

He’ll probably break her heart without ever meaning to. She’s looking forward to it. She’s looking forward to anything that isn’t hating everything about her day so much that none of it can touch her, and sometimes Tim looks back at her so shockingly serious that it doesn’t even seem like an oncoming disaster, that she looks back at him and thinks—maybe.

She doesn’t see much of Gertrude Robinson, but she runs into her once at the doors of the Institute, Gertrude coming at six o’clock at night and Sasha going an hour later than she’d meant to. Gertrude meets her eyes. “You look well,” Gertrude says, prim and as pleased with herself as Tim has ever been at his worst.

“I am,” Sasha says, and she makes sure to hold Gertrude’s gaze when she says, “Thank you.”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything,” Gertrude says. They both know it’s a lie.

Sasha doesn’t know why Gertrude had recommended the transfer. But she’s grateful.

**

Gertrude Robinson dies.

There’s no body, no memorial, but they all know it. Gertrude Robinson is dead, and Sasha doesn’t know what to do with that. They’d barely known each other. There’s no reason for her to feel like she should mourn.

**

No one else seems to think much of Gertrude’s death. Jon is so focused on his work that Sasha is fairly certain that the rest of them just don’t exist outside of the designated times during which he acknowledges and interacts with his coworkers. Martin’s kindness is a constant; it doesn’t ebb and flow based on current events. Tim stops her once, his hand warm against her arm in a way that legitimately seems more meant for comfort than whatever ephemeral _maybe_ hovers between them.

“You all right?” he asks, close and soft. “You’ve seemed—distracted, recently. A little.”

They’d barely known each other.

“Fine,” Sasha says. She smiles without having to force it and feels daring enough to drop a kiss into the air above his cheek. The corner of Tim’s mouth ticks up.

Elias calls her into his office later.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” he says. “We’re a bit short staffed in the Archives. I’m hoping to transfer you over. Archival assistant is a bit of a lateral promotion, but it _is_ a promotion.”

She’s always been interested in the Archives. It seems natural to say yes.

“Excellent.” Elias huffs out a laugh. He’s watching her closely. “It’s a little bit funny, really. Gertrude recommended you for this position before—well, before.”

Sasha feels nothing but curiosity, and a vague pang of fondness for a woman she hadn’t known, who hadn’t known her. “Really?”

“Really. She wasn’t wrong. I’m sure Jon will be happy to have you.”

She and Jon have always worked well together. “I hope so.”

Elias’ eyes gleam. “I’m certain that you’ll perform admirably,” he says. “There’s no reason to hope.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh—no. Nothing.”

Sasha hesitates.

She hesitates, but when Elias offers her his hand, she takes it.

 _Curiosity isn’t always something that should be fed_ , says a voice that sounds like Gertrude Robinson’s.

She hesitates, and then she lets her hesitation bleed away.

It’s a weird job, but Sasha has learned to like it.


End file.
